


A Fine and Private Place

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Retirement, note this occurs in the past, sad but not traumatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26519404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Some time after Sherlock Holmes’s death (natural causes), Watson reminisces. (This story attempts to explain some “errors” in ACD canon.)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 19





	A Fine and Private Place

It is a cold morning, and the harshness of this unheralded chill has seeped its way into my old bones and awoken me. Would that I could somehow harness the magic within fiction and conjure up a real-life bull pup to provide extra warmth. That form of companion would leave the public as blissfully unaware as ever of the absence of my bedwarmer for these many years, Sherlock Holmes, who now lay beyond _my_ ken. It was, in many ways, much the same as during the early years of my marriage and during Holmes’s feigned death-- save for the sobering fact that this time there would be no hope, however slim, of return. 

_"The grave's a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace."_

I remind myself that only fictional dogs do not require walking on a morning such as this one, as I try to find the motivation to extricate myself from what little warmth I have somehow managed to generate beneath my coverlet.

This is the second such morning within this lonely month I have had such thoughts; it makes me long to set the record straight-- and so I shall-- if only to have it languish in that great tin box in Charing Cross for decades more. At least it will have served to ease my own troubled mind, and perhaps strengthen my resolve to stay here, amidst the high, white cliffs and Holmes's bees, instead of heed the call to warmer climes. A return to the scorching sands of Afghanistan would certainly chase away this cold, but would do little to assuage the true cause of my ache. It is, as has been alluded to in the past, from a wound which lies elsewhere. Of course, that is not to say the state of these old bones in the damp morning air does not constitute a physical reality.

I force myself to make breakfast. I have only just now stopped making tea for two, and while there is a sadness in that, there is a certain degree of health as well. 

I am making progress. Words on the page can only help matters.

The first time Holmes picked up the pen, as I quite vividly recall, the result had been "The Blanched Soldier", a thinly-veiled attempt at reminding me he would never abandon me, regardless of circumstance. The case seemed custom-made to produce guilt --with its narrative of a military man willing to move heaven and earth to reunite with the comrade he loved so dearly. It had been written at a time when we had _both_ agreed I should not join Holmes in retirement in Sussex. And lest I find his clandestine message that it was _I_ who had abandoned _him_ ( _Betrayal_ , indeed!) far too uncharacteristically sentimental to be valid, it was neatly wedged in-between reminders of both my incompetence as a storyteller and my lack of insight as a...helpmate. Furthermore, the story's conclusion was something any competent medical man could have spotted in an instant. Yes, whilst chastising me, he made it clear I should have been there beside him to solve the case. If such a case ever truly existed. I wouldn't have put it past Holmes to have made up the thing in its entirety.

Furthermore, it had been Holmes's idea-- living apart during retirement for the sake of propriety. After all, we were no longer working together, so why should we be living together? I strongly disagreed from the start, but I had kept that sentiment to myself. I see in hindsight that perhaps the suggestion was a sort of proving ground. That I was meant to have protested. But instead I had told myself, as I far-too-frequently have done, _always his way_. I had made the best of it and conformed to his wishes without full agreement or even complete understanding, just as I would later do at his behest when he requested I leave all notices of his passing out of the papers. Thought dead when alive and alive when dead, Sherlock Holmes. It still makes me smile when I think of it.

In any case, I had told him separate quarters miles apart suited me fine. That I wished to continue concentrating on my practice whilst I was still young enough to do so had the ring of truth, and hence I could claim my remaining in London was an ideal situation. I boarded up any of my lingering hopes, as the deeper relationship we were perpetually on the verge of acknowledging was dashed to bits against those deceptively romantic, pale cliffs.

After a few months, it seemed as if Holmes had no longer found it desirable to remain separated by an unwieldy train ride (though he would never say so directly). He had informed me that he would simply charge an exorbitant sum to the next "royal twit" who came to him with stolen papers for which they had not taken adequate precaution, and I needn't work again for the foreseeable future. 

In my anger, I had told him that was entirely beside the point. 

When I saw the publisher's copy, I deliberately ignored the literary serving of guilt that was Blanched Soldier. 

I had thought the matter resolved, so I was shocked when the package I nearly stumbled over upon my doorstep turned out to be an advance copy of "The Lion's Mane", the contents of which amounted to, amongst other things, rather precise directions to Holmes's house out there on the lonely Downs. After all my careful obscurification of the true location of anything, save our consulting rooms! The only accurate locations I had mentioned during all my years as Sherlock Holmes's chronicler were those Baker Street rooms and Reichenbach Falls (as I thought at that point preserving secrecy scarcely mattered). 

I take my obligation to our clients quite seriously, so all names, dates, locations, have always been changed if a client was yet living, and in some cases, even if they were not. No one should tamper with a legacy without good reason. I had also tried to use pseudonyms from my own life experience whenever possible, to better recall the clients’ manufactured names, should my editor have questions. Frankly, I did not trust that man, nor did I feel he bore good will to Holmes and myself-- and his attitude had only worsened once I returned to him with the tale of Holmes's resurrection. This, in spite of the fact that the public was eagerly consuming the stories and the even more significant fact that we had made him a great deal of money. My mother, Violet, and her brother, James, featured heavily as nominative placeholders, but even with that technique, I still made errors...far too frequent for my taste. I was changing names and dates so often that any careful reader would think me senile. 

Once, in my haste to meet a deadline, I had neglected to change a date and could not submit the correction in time. At Holmes's behest, the printer reluctantly tinkered with the master copy and was able to modify the final number of the year. I was greatly relieved that we had yet managed to take the extra step to protect the sworn anonymity of our client; however, upon viewing it within the pages of The Strand, I noticed to my chagrin the date to which it had been so hastily changed was none other than one of the years during which Holmes was thought by all save his brother to have been dead. 

The thought that any reader might conceivably stumble upon such an error— or still worse, think that I had somehow forgotten the dates which encompassed that dreadful time forever etched upon my mind— vexed me. That Holmes had found it quite amusing did little to quell my anger at myself. Doyle (my aforementioned editor) insisted no one would scour my stories for synchronicity, but rather would simply read them as the romantic, adventurous entertainment they were and give the matter little serious thought. I am mostly certain he meant well, but the comment was... disappointing. Implying my work was little more than drivel made me think he and the laughing Holmes had far more in common than either man would care to admit.

It was far from the first time they had shared a laugh at my expense. Many readers might think Holmes lacked anything as deeply humanising as humour, and I confess to encouraging that misconception. If ever there were a singular selfish action of mine it was not in my abandoning him for a wife-- for one could scarcely say I had abandoned him during those years, no matter what Holmes claimed during his brief foray into storytelling. Mary's time within this Earthly realm was cut short, but she always was amenable to the many hours, days, sometimes weeks I spent with Holmes. Not... in any overtly romantic sense. I was not yet aware myself of the depths of my attraction to him (though in hindsight I strongly suspect _she_ might have been). But I digress. My selfish action was in portraying Holmes as a cold and heartless automaton, when he was nothing of the kind. But simply because he wasn't as inhuman as a Babbage's machine doesn't mean the man wasn't as calculating as one-- and more than a bit ruthless. 

I distinctly recall slamming “The Lion's Mane” upon the breakfast table with a satisfying thunk. Now, after all my diligence, Holmes was recklessly disclosing the location of his home to every criminal sworn for vengeance both in England and upon the Continent. Perhaps elsewhere as well. My first thought was to rush to his side to protect him from unwelcome visitors. Had it not been Holmes, I would have thought myself duty-bound to assist in making the best of an egregious error and ensuring his protection. But it _was_ Holmes. The man knew precisely what he was doing, and I saw it for the skillful move it was-- to get me to abandon my practice, yet again, and join him. His manipulation proved no match for my stubbornness. 

I still hold that my desire to see him again was in spite of this game of his, not because of it. I believe this to be the moment I first began to suspect it for the flirtation which it was.

I sent a telegram stating I would pay a visit to Sussex the following week.

***

When I arrived, he met me at the train station and, after a far more formal greeting than I had anticipated, proceeded to travel in an entirely different direction than his description had suggested. Much nearer to Beachy Head. I frowned as the carriage turned abruptly, and he smiled.

"You were expecting something closer to Eastbourne?"

"Holmes, you are incorrigible."

"Ah, yes. You might do well to add that to my catalogue of faults."

"I will most certainly add 'scheming'. As of now, I am debating whether it is a fault or an attribute. At least you use your unsurpassed talent for annoyance in the service of the greater good."

He laughed at that, and it had seemed to me I was destined to be repeatedly confronted with my literary assaults upon Holmes's character. In one of my more popular stories, I mentioned he seldom laughed. This could not be further from the truth. The man seemed to find everything amusing, much to my detriment. Perhaps that rebuke was, in fact, wishful thinking.

He looked at me for a long moment and read my thoughts, as he had so often done in the past, To this day I am not sure whether I found that ability more comforting or disturbing. "You may continue to portray me as buckram, but while you are contemplating making some adjustments, might I suggest you remedy the misconception of my knowledge of politics as 'feeble'-- before another royal family concludes I have little respect for the utter ridiculousness which is the aristocracy and takes their case, _and their money,_ elsewhere." I agreed it was fiscally unwise, and promised Sherlock Holmes would, in future, demonstrate a far greater knowledge of, and possibly even respect for, prominent political figures. He smiled, called that an untruth worthy of perpetuating, and then reiterated that he was perfectly fine with being a machine for several more stories, however-- as it suited him. 

Of course he noticed my inability to join in his mirth on that count. 

Doyle had suggested I embellish the narrative with additional descriptions of his compassion toward women, children, the poverty-stricken, to make Holmes appear more amiable, but Holmes had only criticised my earlier attempts at doing so. "I believe there is something to this image, Watson," he had said back when my earliest stories were published, "If intelligence and compassion are thought to be at odds by your readership, I would far prefer being thought of as wise and surprising clients with my compassion than the reverse." 

I turned to face him then, schooling the bitter disappointment in myself from my features. "Holmes," said I, "I do still recall your previous assertions on this topic, but regardless, I fear I have perpetrated a grave injustice with my callous presentation."

I would not tell him I was secretly glad of it. I was just beginning to admit to myself that it had been part of a deliberate mechanisation to portray him as undesirable in one manner in particular-- a poor object of conquest for the more determined members of the fair sex. Eventually, I would tell him so, as well as the reasoning which lay behind it, but not at this moment.

It was later that afternoon, shortly after lunch, whilst warming ourselves by the fire and enjoying a pipe, when he finally ferreted it out. Of course he had waited until after I had confessed my rationale and extolled his every virtue: his brilliance, his humour, his magnetism, his looks, his charm-- how his myriad positive qualities would find him likely to be pursued by any woman with a modicum of common sense-- before informing me it was completely unnecessary to take pains to prevent such pursuits. 

He then smiled, as if he had a secret of his own yet-unrevealed. "You may proclaim to the world I distrust the whole of their sex, Watson. That should fend them off. But as it is, I do not mistrust womankind; I find them...to be of little interest. Though I must admit, why you should be so determined to present me as ineligible merits careful examination.”

I think perhaps I had blushed when I admitted to my simple wish for us to have continued our bachelor establishment. A weak argument from one who had already been married, certainly. I had found myself less capable of concealing my stronger passions ever since that damnable moment when a certain bookseller suggested a volume to fill a gap within my shelf and I turned back to find my dearest _departed_ friend grinning at me. Then, I had fainted. Now, I was apparently blushing. "Though examine it I shall," said I. I thought the matter concluded, and felt a great deal of relief. 

I was wrong.

***

Later that evening, Holmes had leapt into his previous conversation without prelude. "And what of yourself? Your looks alone would see many a beautiful, young lady attempting to become the next Mrs Watson." 

Beyond the attraction to Holmes I was furiously working on resolving, like many a widower I was angered by the implication that Mary was somehow replaceable. The heat of that rendered the compliment scarcely noticeable, and I do believe my thoughts on that front were clear as a bell, for Holmes appeared sullen and apologised. "My dear fellow, it was not my intention to imply anyone could replace your beloved wife. I am truly sorry."

"It is hardly necessary to apologise. I know you are without malice."

"I am, indeed, a man whose ignorance of social niceties is only outshone by his even greater ignorance of astronomy." Holmes's smile was hopeful in its mission to be reciprocated.

I remained unmoved. "You are perfectly capable of acting appropriately when the moment requires it...or perhaps when you think it worth the effort. I am well aware that in certain areas you know far more than you find worth caring about."

"Ah, but I do care about you." Holmes cleared his throat. "Mary was a rare woman."

"Yes. No other would afford me the opportunity to chase criminals through the streets of London at all hours."

"True." He was lost in thought, perhaps nostalgic for the days where we followed suspects in hot pursuit. "But certainly, a man such as yourself might wish to have a second wife. There is no shame in that."

"I was a good husband to her, yet even Mary was not above chiding me that my attention often lay elsewhere. I do not think I should wish to put another good woman through that."

Holmes turned to attend to the fire. "I... did my best."

The words struck me with their sparse honesty. "Did your best in what manner, Holmes?"

He continued to speak as he rearranged the supporting log. "To cease to be a distraction. It did not work as well as I had hoped."

"I fail to understand your meaning."

He grew uncharacteristically silent. "It is of no consequence. And as for your portrayal of me, I am well aware you do not write a man-- you write a character. And a popular one at that. I find I prefer to be quite different than the literary Holmes. It is, a strange sort of privacy, I suppose. There are a few things I should like to keep from the public. Only between us, if you would." 

"You refer to the cocaine. I believe I have removed all mention of it in my recent stories, and perhaps in future editions I could be--"

"No. That should be left as is. It had become a dangerous weight to bear and I...occasionally reread those passages, the one regarding the 'sleeping giant' in particular... as a reminder."

"I had no idea you reread any of it! I thought you couldn't be troubled to read them even a first time!"

"That is... not entirely accurate. I do reread certain stories, as the mood strikes. I find myself rereading your account of Milverton--"

"Ah! Now that was a brilliant work of fiction, I must admit."

"Yes. I am particularly drawn to the passage where we hide behind the curtains." He turned back to face me again and frowned. "Perhaps it is worth the telling." He sighed and reached for his pipe. "Watson, I was abroad for many years, as you well know. I went on a spiritual quest of sorts. The birthplaces of the great religions of the Orient. Though the Church of England taught me gratitude, it did not offer up peace of mind. I wished to avoid London, leave you to start your new family, and me to conquer my vices. Neither of our paths went quite as planned, Old Boy."

"I know well enough how Mary and Johanna were taken from me at that time, but I know nothing of your experiences half a world away. Aside from your time as Sigerson, which seemed to me a grand adventure. Did I misjudge?"

"In nearly every aspect of importance, yes. I saw the Khalifa in Khartoum, the Head Lama in Tibet. I found a degree of, shall we say _acceptance_ , amongst the Gurus and Brahmin. And when Mycroft informed me of Mary's death... and of Johanna’s as well… I...." He stopped a moment and looked at the hearth rug. "Well, in truth, I could not bear to be an additional source of pain. The loss of your friend was... remediable." His eyes travelled to meet mine, then quickly darted away once more. "Perhaps that is not the best way of phrasing things.”

"You came back to curtail my grief?"

"I felt that I might provide some degree of comfort, at that point."

"That statement implies you believed there was a point when that might not have been the case."

"I am only glad that it _was_ the case."

I am not a simpleton. And I daresay I knew Holmes well enough to ascertain when he was avoiding an issue. I pressed it. "And why should I ever have cause not to appreciate your company, Holmes?"

"As you said, you would not wish to put another good woman through the difficulties Mary had borne with such grace."

"I exaggerate. In truth, Mary had no such concerns. She often said one can take the man out of danger but one cannot take the danger out of the man. She never forgot that our marriage was built upon an adventure. Her only concern was that I would retire in due time and not push myself beyond my ability."

"Then perhaps the concern was my own."

"You thought yourself a burden upon my marriage?"

"It is all in the past now, and no longer merits discussion. Shall I ring for supper?"

"Yes. I wonder what Mrs Turner shall be offering this evening?" 

It was meant as idle chat, but Holmes surprised me with a definitive answer. “Wellington."

"Ah! And I thought Martha only prepared that on special occasions. When Mrs Hudson had wished her to impress."

"Yes, quite so. I requested it."

"It is my favourite."

"I am well aware."

I paused in thought, attempting in vain to exhaust all possibilities before finally giving up and simply asking. "What are we celebrating, Holmes?" 

"We are here together once more. Can we not, for no reason of import save this, replace a simple meal with a more elegant one? ‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.’”

"Waxing poetic? To think, I once imagined you ignorant of such things. We shall have to propose a toast with our supper. Perhaps, 'To the Virgins Who Make Much of Time'.

"It’s 'To Make Much of Time', actually. 'To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time'." He corrected me, and then grew quiet, as if reconsidering whether having done so had been a proper gesture. This concerned me, for it was not so like my Holmes. I wished him to know I took no offense. "Marvell?" I asked, attempting to convey a degree of casualness in my tone.

"Herrick," he said, quiet as a mouse. "Though Marvell's 'To His Coy Mistress' is similarly themed."

"Ah. That one was-- 'Had we but world enough, and time...'"

Holmes approached the bell pull and rang for supper.

We ate in what should have been amiable silence, as we had so many times before, but it seemed somehow strained. It was a fine meal indeed.

"The grave's a fine and private place. But none I think do there embrace," said he in what was practically a whisper. "Watson. I—"

"Holmes, you seem much taken aback this evening. I am tempted to look through your notes to find some anniversary I have somehow forgotten. Perhaps a more melancholy one. Certainly not Mycroft's passing, for that was in June. Neither of us have remaining kin. No one save each other. A friendship which supersedes all kinship, in my assessment."

Holmes smiled. "Yes. Through many trials of your patience. I assure you there is no anniversary you have neglected. I am merely weighing out potential outcomes, this night."

"Your cryptic nature is difficult to bear under normal circumstances, Holmes, but tonight it is maddening. Out with it, man!" I smiled and hoped I had tempered my irritation with affection. 

Holmes merely stared at me, his grey eyes widening, surprised, in the pale light of his new electric lamp.

"Watson, I have missed you."

I let out a huff of air, not bothering to disguise my annoyance. "That was quite clear from your thinly-disguised writing. Have you not sufficiently occupied your time swimming with your school chums?" I caught myself after the fact, dropping my fork onto my plate with a clatter. "I... I apologise for the-- Excuse me." I got up and left the room. 

McPherson was a man he had swam with frequently. And McPherson was dead. Here I was, childishly calling him out on having gone swimming with a man who was no more, jealous of the time spent. It was not as if he could very well swim in London. Why should he not do so in the clear turquoise beaches along the southern coast? And why not with a companion? Mortified, I was ready to pack my things and head back to the train station. Of course none would run until morning in any case, but, surely I could find lodging for the night. 

Holmes appeared framed in the doorway. He said nothing.

"My behavior was inexcusable, Holmes."

"On the contrary. I find it quite appropriate. Helpful, even."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"You were jealous."

There was little point in denying it. "And if I was? That is hardly an excuse for me to speak ill of a close friend of yours, now departed."

"You did not speak ill of him. Though you might harbor questionable thoughts which remain unspoken? Stackhurst came by after classes. Sometimes. Not nearly as often as I had implied. I exaggerated the extent of our friendship. McPherson, he liked to race me, to keep his heart at a challenging, but not exhausting, pace. He was always keen to compete with anyone to prove he wasn't as weak as he truly knew himself to be. He thought it would ensure good health, a daily swim." Holmes gave a half-hearted smile. "It didn't matter... in the end...how fit he was."

I nodded. Holmes gestured for me to sit down. I reluctantly complied.

"He was quite tanned. From daily swims. It...he reminded me of you. You still are... not quite as brown as a nut, but, shall we say, a pleasing shade, nonetheless. He was of a roughly similar build, as well. Not as muscular as a former army man and rugby player such as yourself. But the closest substitute I could find."

That he should wish for someone much like me in any capacity beyond a whetstone for his mind. That he should wish a... more physical embodiment of my presence... was indeed a revelation. I was certain it showed upon my features in a spectacularly unguarded manner.

"He, was, however, most assuredly not you. So...therefore...he was only of passing interest."

My mind raced with possibility. I suppose my reaction had rather tipped my hand. I wanted it to have been enough, but I could sense Holmes dancing on the edges of this. Ready to dart back to safety, to rearrange his words in a flash, should I appear offended by the implication. Holmes could read me, yes, but I needed to be the one to take the risk. I knew myself to be a brave man. I had been told this many times before, at any rate. It was time to show myself still worthy of that praise. 

"Weighing potential outcomes, Holmes?"

"Yes."

"I assure you there would be no negative outcomes to any scenario that crosses my mind as likely to occur."

"Ah. But it is my lot in life to also think of scenarios that are...less predictable. The improbable, as it were."

I stepped toward him, catching a faint blush in the fading light. "Ever since I walked into the laboratory and you knew beyond any doubt that I had returned from Afghanistan, I have been operating under a false assumption."

Holmes eyed me, puzzled.

"And that is, that you know how to read my thoughts. I will admit, I remain convinced you do, as you have proven this time and time again. You have, in fact, done this very thing within moments of my arrival at the train station. However... in this instance... I need to make them absolutely transparent, beyond any secondary explanation." 

He was looking right at me now. It should have made me more fearful for the irrevocable step I was about to take. It did not. I had seldom felt as calm nor as steady of purpose. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I have loved you for some time now. I see this state as continuing well into the foreseeable future, but I have spoken of this love before, as have you. So...let me clarify my meaning."

I rubbed my thumb against the smooth skin of his cheek, leaned forward slowly, kissed him softly. I knew not the degree of experience he had in such matters… whether the last time he had kissed anyone at all was poor old Agatha, or whether he and Stackhurst or McPherson, or even (and I dared not dwell upon this) the both of them, had done far more than even this simple act. It made no difference who it might have been, if anyone at all; all that mattered was that it had not been me. And my own experiences had not been with Holmes. It was not a question of throwing the book of my life upon the fire and rewriting it. It was merely a matter of writing a new chapter. And this we did, upon that night. I will not set an account down within these pages, as it is hardly necessary to reiterate how two people in love for many years might choose to express it. But let me merely suggest, express it we did.

***

I resolved to sell my practice and join Holmes in Sussex. I had business to attend to with Doyle as well. When I returned to London, it was with Holmes at my side. 

Holmes was waiting in our old sitting room upon my return from the unfortunate meeting, examining the empty spot on the shelf that once held his case files, now packed away in a cottage attic. He ran a finger along the shelving and considered the dust.

“As God is my witness, one of these days I shall find myself a new agent. He is harassing me yet again."

"Regarding?"

"He keeps inquiring as to the name of the hospital where I convalesced. He says there is one which claims to have treated me, and they wish for me to write a short piece to be auctioned off for their fundraiser."

"Tell him to sod off."

"What! Surely you don't think I am above charitable--"

"He thinks you are exaggerating your injuries."

"Exaggerating my.... if anything I am underplaying them! This blasted leg aches whenever it is sufficiently cold or wet, which, in this bloody climate, is damned near constant!"

"My dear Watson, it is not I who am questioning you. Please direct your anger elsewhere, for it is soon to be further inflamed. Hand me your copy of _A Study In Scarlet_ , would you? There’s a good man. Oh, and _Adventures_ and ...hmmmm _Sign of Four_ , I should think.”

I handed them each to him in sequence.

Holmes began to read aloud. "'I served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery.'"

"And..?"

"Now for _Adventures_. ‘The Jezail bullet which I had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan campaign, throbbed with dull persistency.' "

"Is there a point to this? I do not mention this more than a handful of times in well over 50 stories."

" _Sign of Four_ : 'I made no remark, however. But sat nursing my wounded leg. I had had a Jezail bullet through it some time before, and though it did not prevent me from walking, it ached wearily at every change of weather.'”

"And still does, I might add."

He turned some more pages. “‘ Whence came Toby, and a six-mile limp for a half-pay officer with a damaged tendo Achillis', that one was attributed to me, by the way."

"I am quite aware."

"Do you not see the issue?"

"No, I most certainly do not."

Holmes sighed. "You have described your wound as a Jezail bullet shattering your shoulder. You have also described it as a Jezail bullet in a limb in which the bullet, or at least fragments of it, remains lodged. You go on to mention that a Jezail bullet went through your leg, leaving it aching in bad weather. And then you have me, who is never wrong," he grinned that grin I knew all too well, "state that you had a damaged tendo Achillis."

"Are you saying he believes I am deceiving the public with the extent of my injuries to garner sympathy?"

"I suspect the seed has been planted by readers who think themselves observant. It is far more difficult to unlodge an idea than a bullet, once it has found a home," he reached across the table and tapped my forehead gently, "here." He then kissed the spot gently, as if erasing a mark with his lips. I remained, however, unpacified by the gesture.

I pushed the chair aside and began to pace. "Has it never occurred to them that walking long distances when one slightly favors one leg can cause strain on the juncture of foot and calf, and that it was not... _yet another bullet wound_ \--"

" _Jezail_ bullet wound." Holmes smiled, but it faded quickly into something far more repentant upon seeing my distinct lack of humour regarding the situation.

"Is that what this is all about? The fact that I mentioned the type of bullet twice,"

"Sorry, but... thrice. Note that I only state this for the sake of accuracy."

I winced. "Thrice...makes these so-called 'dedicated' readers think I either created a fiction or encountered some sort of magical single Jezail bullet which passed through my shoulder and one part of my leg, only to finally lodge itself within another part of my leg?"

"That's the long and short of it, yes."

"And it is beyond their comprehension that I just might have received _more than one injury_ during my years in the service, before a life-threatening infection ultimately sent me home?"

"Perhaps it is the fact that you only mention the shoulder injury once and never again."

"A shoulder injury does not aggravate with walking, or else I would have seen fit to complain with far greater frequency. In truth, If it had been at my sole discretion, I would have mentioned my injuries only the once-- in _Study in Scarlet--_ but it was _Doyle_ who said some new readers might not be aware of my military service and I should be certain to mention it on subsequent occasions, as it would be a point of great reader interest if I were to -- oh, Holmes! Do you really think it true that so many might doubt me?" I sighed. "And it was many years between those mentions. I do recall thinking that naming the bullet was a more subtle, artistic way to convey that I was stationed in Afghanistan without bringing up any specific aspects of the campaign which some might find either boring or disquieting depending on the reader's experiences-- and.... And it was _also Doyle_ who suggested I not mention a battle which was an Afghan victory again! To keep it more.... Why, that--"

"The descriptions also are written in a remarkably similar manner, but with dissimilar entry and exit points--"

"So, yes, he thinks I am creating a fictional wound and recounting it slightly differently each time-- rather than having received multiple injuries at Maiwand, the most severe of which sent me home with Enteric Fever. Wonderful. And it said 'through the leg'? Are you certain?"

Holmes looked right at me. He had no need to reread the passage from the source to ensure his accuracy. "I had had a Jezail bullet through it some time before," said he.

"I had said "damage it," in the original manuscript. I remember now. Doyle said 'through' was more dramatic. I didn't think it mattered."

"My advice stands. Tell him to--"

"Sod off. I most certainly will." 

A noble sentiment, if it were not for the fact that Holmes believed I had already done so, and this was to be a second warning. Years past, Doyle had informed me my latest work had lacked for romance. I did not wish to write more in that vein, as Mary's death had left me without a bedmate, and with no desire for one. I rather enjoyed my time with Holmes once again. Though a pretty woman did occasionally turn my head, I was far from longing for such a commitment. And as for the physical needs I had met within the sacrament of matrimony, well... that fades with age, or so I had thought at the time. I had told Holmes I had had enough of Doyle's advice, though I admit I had neglected to send that message onward to Doyle. I would write no more romantic elements.

Later, I ascertained the true issue. I was currently devoted to an intimate partnership. I had, with an embarrassing lack of self-awareness, been in one for many years. And, as Holmes had said once of the greatest of criminals, there comes a particularly dangerous time, when they have been carrying on seemingly forever, and they start to get bored. They want to talk. They want...to get caught.

Such was the case with the messages which lay hidden within my deepest thoughts-- they had not yet made themselves known to me, but were struggling for recognition, until the clarity of that fateful day in Sussex. I often wonder if clarity of the air is somehow linked to clarity of the mind. Perhaps that is why, when living in London, everything had seemed so murky. A polluted haze of emotion.

"And Watson, while we are contemplating which words to put into print, might I bring your attention to your latest manuscript. If you are going to say a character has dark, handsome, _aqualine_ features, you might just be a bit... transparent. Do add something about the lady as well. Golden-haired blonde, blue-eyed, perfect complexion. That sort of thing."

"You _would_ think I was referencing you."

"Are you saying you were not?"

I laughed. "I will say no such thing." I folded my paper and looked up at Holmes, concerned. "Should I remove my comment regarding the gentleman's appearance altogether? Perhaps, I should create a particularly beautiful female client and--"

"Been done already. If you really wish to throw them off the scent, you should-- forgive the impertinence-- find yourself another wife.”

I bristled. “I understand the need to conceal my true relationship, but I have no desire to invent a false one out of whole cloth as a means of doing so.” It felt an affront to Mary’s memory. 

“I do not suggest you fabricate a courtship. And I do not think it offensive if you were to occasionally mention a woman, without any description, nor commentary as to how you met. Then, within the reader's mind, it will seem as if a woman has always been there, will always be there, in the background of the stories. Simply say something regarding a wife on occasion. Casually. It will be quite effective. Some will assume you have remarried. Others will assume it is Mary of whom you speak. You have already confessed to your readers your need to occasionally change dates, so you needn't concern yourself with accuracy or details. You will have a permanent woman beside you."

"Shall I have one for you as well?"

He laughed. "No. Let's leave it at my distaste for all things emotional. You have already established that well."

"Perhaps a few comments regarding the appreciation of a woman's features?"

"Watson, this degree of care in my portrayal is hardly necessary, and though your concern is entirely without merit, feel free if you wish. I have already mentioned Maude Bellamy.” 

I grimaced at the memory. Perhaps that was also why I had thrown my copy upon the table.

“Yes, that had been a petty attempt at arousing jealousy, for which I owe you an apology. Though she was, and remains, an attractive woman.”

I eyed him with false suspicion as long as I could before I broke into laughter. “Yes. What sort of detective would you be if you could not discern that? There are many such persons in the world who are undoubtedly attractive but hold no promise. I am certain every woman within these pages you so much as glanced upon will prove a romantic interest for those longing to find it, whilst they miss the true developing romance entirely.”

Holmes smiled broadly, and continued. “And one of the great true romances of our time, no less. But...with regard to your occasional comments complimenting men, though you have done so in previous instances, one should always bear in mind the judgment upon such comments may be evolving with the passage of time. Still, you are quite a ways away from, say, Mr Wilde's level of suggestive prose. It falls heavily in your favour that you have my guidance. Even if one were actively seeking out the true romance within, it would be difficult to find and impossible to prove.” He smiled. “Of course, you do have to choose to mind my suggestions. I did warn you about the implications of infidelity regarding the one with Miss Cushing's ear, did I not?'

I sighed. "Yes, you most certainly did. Who would have thought the American public would be so easily offended?"

"At least you took my advice to heart when it came time to record the account of your female cyclist. Changing the facts in the client's best interest is no vice."

"And here I was, thinking you were determined to present only completely factual accounts."

"Well, as far as the scientific process, yes. Your romantic additions are far less critical."

"Why thank you, as always, for your expert literary commentary. I think these newer ones are doing quite well."

"For ineffable twaddle."

"I suppose I do deserve that. But in my defense, I had not yet received a proper demonstration of your powers of observation when I made that statement." I paused to make a quick calculation. "Have you seriously kept that one at the forefront of your mind for some 20-odd years, just waiting for the right moment to throw it at me?" 

"Timing is everything, John." He glanced up at me through lowered lashes. Mrs Hudson had gone out for the evening, as she had mentioned to us at breakfast. Timing indeed. I moved slowly toward the reclining form spread out upon the fainting couch, now artfully rearranging both limbs and dressing gown to their greatest effect. 

***

Recalling such scenes are a strange mixture of emotions now. I love when I am reminded of our more intimate moments, of course, but, as you can imagine, there is much pain in the recollection.

It is a fine and private place, Sherlock. But I will embrace you. In good time.

Oh, I know how much you loved your Winwood Reade; your skepticism in the hereafter always ran deep. But I also will never forget what you had said in good old Tadpole Phelps’s sickroom. That bit about the roses. If a consummate logician such as yourself can hold out hope, this old soldier, who has seen more than enough to doubt the Divine, can find it within himself to hope as well.

I have one last adventure to write, though I doubt it will be the last that Doyle sees fit to publish. One far more fiction than fact. I believe I shall give you a ridiculous accent and an even more ridiculous goatee. Perhaps have us part ways. Some suitable drama. You’d hate it. Then, my writing finished, our legacy assured, I will bide my time, until we meet again.

**Author's Note:**

> I know my timing is a bit off if we go by the published date of the stories. Let’s just assume Doyle hangs on to them and publishes them when he feels like it. I would like to have had the poems linked, but I am too lazy: “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time” and “To His Coy Mistress”..both concerning taking action before it’s too late.


End file.
